


A Union of Stars

by Wild_Rose_Briar_and_Holly



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), George R. R. Martin - Fandom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-25
Updated: 2020-02-18
Packaged: 2020-03-17 11:57:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18964768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wild_Rose_Briar_and_Holly/pseuds/Wild_Rose_Briar_and_Holly
Summary: If Lyanna Stark did not leave unannounced, perhaps the entire events that unfolded would not have occurred. This is the tale of that case.Ned Stark took in not one, but two wards at Winterfell, Theon Greyjoy being the second ward, and Shierra Mormont





	1. An Execution of Justice.

ROBB

 

The morning had dawned clear and cold, with a crispness that hinted at the end of summer. They set forth at daybreak to see a man beheaded, twenty in all, and Robb’s brother, Bran, rode among them, nervous with excitement.

Accompanying them was the two wards of Winterfell, Theon and Shiera, both of whom had made this journey several times, and neither of which had much opinion on the matter.

This was the first time his brother had been deemed old enough to go with his lord father and his brothers to see the king’s justice done. It was the ninth year of summer, and the seventh of Bran’s life. The man, whom had made this journey necessary, had been taken outside a small holdfast in the hills. Robb thought he was a wildling, his sword sworn to Mance Rayder, the King-beyond-the-Wall. 

It made Bran’s skin prickle to think of it. He remembered the hearth tales Old Nan told them. The wildlings were cruel men, she said, slavers and slayers and thieves. They consorted with giants and ghouls, stole girl children in the dead of night, and drank blood from polished horns. And their women lay with the Others in the Long Night to sire terrible half human children.

Shierra disagreed, claiming not all men from beyond the wall belonged to the wildlings nation, and Old Nan’s tales were farfetched, that no woman would lay with creatures of the night. A teasing grin on her face as Bran had asked how would they lay with the others in the first place, and had left Bran far more than just confused, and Robb far more than just _amused_.

Despite the tales, the man they found bound hand and foot to the holdfast wall awaiting the king’s justice was old and scrawny, not much taller than Robb. He had lost both ears and a finger to frostbite, and he dressed all in black, the same as a brother of the Night’s Watch, except that his furs were ragged and greasy.

Robb heard Shierra clear her throat, as she brought her horse to a halt, she remained a little in front of Bran, a sisterly act Robb thought, one she often still showed Robb himself.

The breath of man and horse mingled, steaming, in the cold morning air as his lord father had the man cut down from the wall and dragged before them. Robb and Jon sat tall and still on their horses, with Bran between them on his pony, trying to seem older than seven, trying to pretend that he’d seen all this before. Shierra was the one whom at this point, seemed more suspicious, a pointed frown on her face as she studies this traitor.

Robb followed her gaze, and his eyes landed on his own Father, worry and regality etched across his face. The windswepped greying hair gave him a look much older than that of thirty-five.

Both he and Bran had taken off Father’s face, and donned the face of Lord Stark of Winterfell. There were questions asked and answers given there in the chill of morning, much of it Robb had regarded as nonsense. Until Shierra spoke up, her nose, pointed up more to the sky than the man in black.

“And what great evil did you see, that would make you forsake duty?”

“The white army.” The man rushed. “The white army, they move and they march south.”

Shierra then dismounted, and walked up to the prisoner, standing at his head.

“The white army? Is this a new name for Mace’s savages?” Her voice boomed and sounded just as regal as that of Robb’s own father.

“No, The white walkers. The _others_. The tales are all true. They march.” He replied, and a pointed frown once more spread on Shierra’s face. “They _march_.”

Theon scoffed and Shierra nodded to Ned, clearly out of questions, but her face still unsatisfied.

 

Robb watched as his lord father gave a command, and two of his guardsmen dragged the ragged man to the ironwood stump in the centre of the square.

They forced his head down onto the hard black wood. Lord Eddard Stark dismounted and his ward Theon Greyjoy brought forth the sword. “Ice,” that sword was called. It was as wide across as a man’s hand, and taller even than Robb.

The blade was Valyrian steel, spell-forged and dark as smoke. Nothing held an edge like Valyrian steel. His father peeled off his gloves and handed them to Jory Cassel, the captain of his household guard. He took hold of Ice with both hands and said,

“In the name of Aerys of the House Targaryen, the Second of his Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, by the word of Eddard of the House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, I do sentence you to die.”

He lifted the greatsword high above his head. In the corner of his eye, he saw his bastard brother Jon Snow move closer to Bran, and Shierra whose gaze whilst not of fascination, did not move from the man’s head.

“Keep the pony well in hand,” Jon whispered to their youngest brother. “And don’t look away. Father will know if you do.”

Bran did this as told and their father took off the man’s head with a single sure stroke. Blood sprayed out across the snow, as red as surnmerwine.

Despite the many times in attending their Lord father, Robb still half expected Shiera to gasp of flinch, as he knew Sansa would, but instead she drew hand to cheek and wiped splattered blood, smearing it across her face as if to wipe it away.

The head bounced off a thick root and rolled. It came up near Greyjoy’s feet. Theon was a lean, dark youth of nineteen who found everything amusing. He laughed, put his boot on the head, and kicked it away.

“Ass,” Jon muttered, low enough so Greyjoy did not hear. Shierra let out an amused exhale, and Greyjoy grinned assuming it for his own action, and not Jon’s words.

Jon put a hand on Bran’s shoulder, and Bran looked over at his bastard brother. “You did well,”  Jon told Bran solemnly.

Jon was fifteen, an old hand at justice but not quite as old as Shierra, still he and Robb had both had experience in justice.

It seemed colder on the long ride back to Winterfell, though the wind had died by then and the sun was higher in the sky.

 

 

BRAN

Bran rode with his brothers, well ahead of the main party, his pony struggling hard to keep up with their horses.

“The deserter died bravely,” Robb said. He was big and broad and growing every day, with his mother’s colouring, the fair skin, red-brown hair, and blue eyes of the Tullys of Riverrun. “He had courage, at the least.”

“No,” Jon Snow said quietly. “It was not courage. This one was dead of fear. You could see it in his eyes, Stark.”

Jon’s eyes were a grey so dark they seemed almost black, but there was little they did not see. He was of an age with Robb, but they did not look alike. Jon was slender where Robb was muscular, dark where Robb was fair, graceful and quick where his half-brother was strong and fast. Robb was not impressed.

“He died honourably. Not Bravely.” Shierra cut in, having had her stead trot up to speed with the boys. “It is easy to mistake one for the other. The subtlety is often missed by boys like yourselves.”

There’s a snide viciousness to her comment, but the humor in her gaze gives away her true feelings. Robb and Jon both shake there heads in agreement to disagree.

“The Others take his eyes,” Robb shrugged. “He died well. Race you to the bridge?”

“Done,” Jon said, kicking his horse forward.

Robb cursed and followed, and they galloped off down the trail, Robb laughing and hooting, Jon silent and intent.

The hooves of their horses kicked up showers of snow as they went. Bran did not try to follow. His pony could not keep up. He had seen the ragged man’s eyes, and he was thinking of them now. Shierra too had stayed back. Whilst often she would join the boys in their horseplay, today she seemed too deep in thought to join in.

 

After a while, the sound of Robb’s laughter receded, and the woods grew silent again. So deep in thought was he that he never heard the rest of the party until his father moved up to ride beside him.

“Are you well, Bran?” he asked, not unkindly.

“Yes, Father,” Bran told him. He looked up. Wrapped in his furs and leathers, mounted on his great warhorse, his lord father loomed over him like a giant.

“Robb says the man died bravely, but Jon says he was afraid. Shierra says neither, and simply he died with Honour.”

His father glanced up to the woman spoken of, whom flushed a red most uncommon on the woman’s face.

“What do you think?” his father asked. Bran thought about it. “Can a man still be brave if he’s afraid?”

The silence and wind answered in Bran’s place, and his father’s lip curled up into a small smile.

“That is the only time a man can be brave,” his father told him. “Do you understand why I did it?”

“He was a wildling,” Bran said. “They carry off women and would take a man’s life, you owe it to him to look into his eyes and hear his final words. And if you cannot bear to do that, then perhaps the man does not deserve to die.”

“That man was no wildling.” Shierra finally spoke up, and Ned looked at her in surprise of this.

“No, he was not. But how would you know?”

“Wildlings are survivors. He would be wearing furs not leathers. This is besides the point. This is about a lesson in duty, not identifying wildlers from traitors.”

Bran looked at Shierra properly, clearly something was on her mind, other than the fact that a man had been killed before her today.

“One day, Bran, you will be Robb’s bannerman, holding a keep of your own for your brother and your king, and justice will fall to you. When that day comes, you must take no pleasure in the task, but neither must you look away. A ruler who hides behind paid executioners soon forgets what death is.”

“Now tell me. What of Shierra’s words. Do you think the man died with Honor.”

“…Yes. He knew death would come for him and in it, he accepted his fate, for he knew the consequence of his actions.”

“You are correct. Now see wisdom in the others words, and find some of your own.”

It was in this moment, where a smile had spread on both the nearest son and ward’s faces when Jon reappeared on the crest of the hill before them. He waved and shouted down at them.

“Father, Bran, come quickly, see what Robb has found!” Then he was gone again.

Bran heard a scoff from Shierra and Jory rode up beside them. “Trouble, my lord?”

“Beyond a doubt,” his lord father said. “Come, let us see what mischief my sons have rooted out now.”

He sent his horse into a trot, and Shierra set hers to pass with a burst of gallop. Jory and Bran and the rest came after. They found Robb on the riverbank north of the bridge, with Jon still mounted beside him. Shierra’s horse already tied to low branch, and Shierra somewhat wadding through the river.

The late summer snows had been heavy this moonturn. Robb stood knee-deep in white, his hood pulled back so the sun shone in his hair. He was cradling something in his arm, while the boys talked in hushed, excited voices. The riders picked their way carefully through the drifts, groping for solid footing on the hidden, uneven ground.

Jory Cassel and Theon Greyjoy were the first to reach the boys. Greyjoy was laughing and joking as he rode. Bran heard the breath go out of him.

 

“Gods!” he exclaimed, struggling to keep control of his horse as he reached for his sword. Jory’s sword was already out.

“Robb, get away from it!” he called as his horse reared under him. Robb grinned and looked up from the bundle in his arms.

“She can’t hurt you,” he said. “She’s dead, Jory.”

Bran was afire with curiosity by then. He would have spurred the pony faster, but his father made them dismount beside the bridge and approach on foot. Bran jumped off and ran. By then Jon, Jory, and Theon Greyjoy had all dismounted as well.

“What in the seven hells is it?” Greyjoy was saying.

“A wolf,” Robb told him.

“A freak,” Greyjoy said. “Look at the size of it.”

 

Bran’s heart was thumping in his chest as he pushed through a waist-high drift to his brothers’ side. Half-buried in bloodstained snow, a huge dark shape slumped in death. Ice had formed in its shaggy grey fur, and the faint smell of corruption clung to it like a woman’s perfume. Bran glimpsed blind eyes crawling with maggots, a wide mouth full of yellowed teeth. But it was the size of it that made him gasp. It was bigger than his pony, twice the size of the largest hound in his father’s kennel.

Shierra had waded across the shallow of the river, and to that of another fallen beast. A great-bear. Her voice carried in the wind and Bran heard her hushed words.

 “This does not bode well.” She murmured.

“It’s no freak,” Jon said calmly. “That’s a direwolf. They grow larger than the other kind.”

Theon Greyjoy said, “There’s not been a direwolf sighted south of the Wall in two hundred years.”

“I see one now,” Jon replied. Bran tore his eyes away from the monster. That was when he noticed the bundle in Robb’s arms. He gave a cry of delight and moved closer.

The pup was a tiny ball of greyblack fur, its eyes still closed. It nuzzled blindly against Robb’s chest as he cradled it, searching for milk among his leathers, making a sad little whimpery sound.

 Bran reached out hesitantly. “Go on,” Robb told him. “You can touch him.”

Bran gave the pup a quick nervous stroke, then turned as Jon said, “Here you go.”

 

His half-brother put a second pup into his arms. “There are five of them.” Bran sat down in the snow and hugged the wolf pup to his face. Its fur was soft and warm against his cheek.

“Direwolves loose in the realm, after so many years,” muttered Hullen, the master of horse. “I like it not.”

“It is a sign,” Jory said.

Father frowned. “This is only a dead animal, Jory,” he said.

Yet he seemed troubled. Snow crunched under his boots as he moved around the body.

 “Do we know what killed her?”

“The bear clearly! The beasts must have slain each other.” Theon boasted.

Bran looked over to Shierra as she knelt beside the other beast.

“No, certainly not,” She called back, “this one was killed by no beasts jaws.”

 

“There’s something in the throat,” Robb told him, proud to have found the answer before his father even asked. “There, just under the jaw.”

 

His father knelt and groped under the beast’s head with his hand. He gave a yank and held it up for all to see. A foot of shattered antler, tines snapped off, all wet with blood.

A sudden silence descended over the party. The men looked at the antler uneasily, and no one dared to speak.

Even Bran could sense their fear, though he did not understand. His father tossed the antler to the side and cleansed his hands in the snow.

 “I’m surprised she lived long enough to whelp,” he said. His voice broke the spell.

“The bear was nursing a cub too.” Shierra called out, a ball of brown fur clutched in her arms as she waided back. “Though this one is more than a few moons old.”

“Maybe she didn’t,” Jory said. “The direwolf. I’ve heard tales . . . maybe the bitch was already dead when the pups came.”

“Born with the dead,” another man put in.

“Worse luck.”

“No matter,” said Hullen. “They be dead soon enough too.”

Bran gave a wordless cry of dismay. “The sooner the better,” Theon Greyjoy agreed. He drew his sword.

“Give the beast here, Bran.” The little thing squirmed against him, as if it heard and understood. “No!” Bran cried out fiercely. “It’s mine.”

“Put away your sword, Greyjoy,” Robb said. For a moment he sounded as commanding as their father, like the lord he would someday be. “We will keep these pups.”

Even Shierra whom was across the river, looked up in a start. Surprise in the declaration evident on her face.

“You cannot do that, boy,” said Harwin, who was Hullen’s son. “It be a mercy to kill them,” Hullen said. Bran looked to his lord father for rescue, but got only a frown, a furrowed brow. “Hullen speaks truly, son. Better a swift death than a hard one from cold and starvation.”

“No!” He could feel tears welling in his eyes, and he looked away. He did not want to cry in front of his father. Robb resisted stubbornly.

“Ser Rodrik’s red bitch whelped again last week,” he said. “It was a small litter, only two live pups. She’ll have milk enough.”

A snigger this time escapes Shierra’s mouth, and she’s now sat beside the bear, watching the encounter in amusement, a smallish creature has burrowed it’s way in her lap, bigger than the pup in his own arms, but much smaller than the bitch Robb referred to.

“She’ll rip them apart when they try to nurse.”

“Lord Stark,” Jon said. It was strange to hear him call Father that, so formal. Bran looked at him with desperate hope. “There are five pups,” he told Father. “Three male, two female.”

“What of it, Jon?”

“You have five trueborn children,” Jon said. “Three sons, two daughters. The direwolf is the sigil of your House. Your children were meant to have these pups, my lord.”

Bran saw his father’s face change, saw the other men exchange glances. He loved Jon with all his heart at that moment. Even at seven, Bran understood what his brother had done. The count had come right only because Jon had omitted himself. He had included the girls, included even Rickon, the baby, but not the bastard who bore the surname Snow, the name that custom decreed be given to all those in the north unlucky enough to be born with no name of their own.

Their father understood as well. “You want no pup for yourself, Jon?” he asked softly.

“The direwolf graces the banners of House Stark,” Jon pointed out. “I am no Stark, Father.” Their lord father regarded Jon thoughtfully.

Robb rushed into the silence he left. “I will nurse him myself, Father,” he promised. “I will soak a towel with warm milk, and give him suck from that.”

“Me too!” Bran echoed. The lord weighed his sons long and carefully with his eyes.

“Easy to say, and harder to do. I will not have you wasting the servants’ time with this. If you want these pups, you will feed them yourselves. Is that understood?”

Bran nodded eagerly. The pup squirmed in his grasp, licked at his face with a warm tongue.

“You must train them as well,” their father said. “You must train them. The kennel-master will have nothing to do with these monsters, I promise you that. And the gods help you if you neglect them, or brutalize them, or train them badly. These are not dogs to beg for treats and slink off at a kick. A direwolf will rip a man’s arm off his shoulder as easily as a dog will kill a rat. Are you sure you want this?”

“Yes, Father,” Bran said.

“Yes,” Robb agreed.

“The pups may die anyway, despite all you do.”

“They won’t die,” Robb said. “We won’t let them die.”

“Keep them, then. Jory, Desmond, gather up the other pups. It’s time we were back to Winterfell. Shiera, are you sure that is the only cub?” Ned asked the now drenched Mormont girl.

Shierra, who at that point had been forgotten, looked up startled, her play with the cub seeming to have distracted her from the discussions.

“Certain my lord, the other was dead too, like its mother.”

“Very well, bring your cub too. If the Starks have their Direwolves, the Mormont should have her Bear.”

“Mayhaps we should cast line and fetch a Squid for Greyjoy to raise.” Shiera grinned.

“It’s a Kraken, Mormont!” Theon called back from his mount.

“Yes, but we are unlikely to find one of those so far inland!” Teasing in her voice did not take away from the fact she did not claim to deny the existance of the Greyjoy’s sigal creature.

 

 It was not until they were mounted and on their way that Bran allowed himself to taste the sweet air of victory. By then, his pup was snuggled inside his leathers, warm against him, safe for the long ride home. Bran was wondering what to name him. Halfway across the bridge, Jon pulled up suddenly.

 “What is it, Jon?” their lord father asked.

“Can’t you hear it?” Bran could hear the wind in the trees, the clatter of their hooves on the ironwood planks, the whimpering of his hungry pup, but Jon was listening to something else.

“There,” Jon said. He swung his horse around and galloped back across the bridge. They watched him dismount where the direwolf lay dead in the snow, watched him kneel. A moment later he was riding back to them, smiling. “He must have crawled away from the others,” Jon said.

“Or been driven away,” their father said, looking at the sixth pup. His fur was white, where the rest of the litter was grey. His eyes were as red as the blood of the ragged man who had died that morning. Bran thought it curious that this pup alone would have opened his eyes while the others were still blind.

“An albino,” Theon Greyjoy said with wry amusement. “This one will die even faster than the others.”

Jon Snow gave his father’s ward a long, chilling look. “I think not, Greyjoy,” he said. “This one belongs to me.”

“How appropriate.” Shiera grinned.

 


	2. A raven.

**BRAN**

It had barely been a moon since the discovery of the Direwolf pups and bear cub. All had begun to grow quick, to his Lady-mothers distress, though the Stark children had kept their word and had begun raising and training their pups. Bran even saw Shiera train her own bear cub to listen to commands. The brown furred beast had already out grown the largest of Bran’s lord-father’s largest hounds.

The beasts had grown so quick that Shiera and Jon had spent three full days and nights building a wolf (and bear) den for their companions, though only themselves and Robb had actually used it, the rest of the Stark children had taken up the habit of allowing their direwolves to stay with them.

Shiera had had the brains to build the den near to Winterfell’s furnace and often when Bran’s Lady-mother had gone to bed, Shiera snuck herself down and slept in her own built bed within the den. Perhaps it was some maternal instinct Bran had thought Shiera would not have, but she cared for the bear in away Bran could only compare to his Lady-mother. Doting and chastising the cub where she should.

He wondered, if perhaps she was with the cub now. He knew his Lady-mother had busied herself this morning in hurrying her girls to their lessons. Shierra being the only exception, having since recently out grown the Septa’s teachings. His Lady mother had commented recently that she was broaching the age where she should marry. Here he was though, out in the courtyard whilst he listened to his brother Jon talk.

“Honestly, I feel that by now, by all probability you should have at least hit the target _once_.” Robb interrupted.

Robb and Jon had taken Bran out for a lesson in Archery, which ultimately would only lead to mischief rather than training. Neither boy was necessarily brilliant at Archery, but proficient enough to teach young Bran, though currently with little success.

Jon shook his head at their brothers antics, and came up to Bran, clapping him on his shoulders.

“Go on, father’s watching,” He encouraged Bran. Bran glanced up at the banisters where both his parents were watching. “And your mother.”

Bran managed a weak smile, before he looked back to his target. Once more he missed his target to his brothers amusment. Even little Rickon let out his boyish giggle.

“And which one of you was a marksmen at ten.” Ned interrupted, which stifled the laughter but not so much the humor. Even still, Catelyn raised her eyebrows. “Keep practicing Bran, go on.”

“Don’t think too much Bran.” Jon advised, whilst Robb looked on.

“Relax your bow arm.”

Bran took a breath and-

 _Thwung_.

An arrow hit centre target. It wasn’t Bran’s arrow though, and all three boys looked to find Arya stood a little behind, bow in grasp. She gave a mock bow, and Bran ran at her. She took flight and Bran continued his chase, with both his older brothers jeering him on.

It was when Arya ran behind a Shiera, who mad just walked through Winterfell’s gates, that Bran ceased his chase.

“What is going on here.”

“Arya’s showing me up!”

“He’s just jellous that I can shoot better than him!” Arya retorted.

“Oh? Is that so?” She looked between Arya, Bran and then to their older brothers. “Honesty, I think it’s more the teachers lacking than the student’s skill here.”

The two boys scoffed, and Robb spoke up in retort.

“Aye, and you’ve taught many master marksmen have you?”

“No but _she_ **_was_** a marksmen at ten.” Ned retorted on Shiera’s behalf.

The older girl grinned before regaining her composure.

“Come on then prove it.” Robb challenged.

“Alright then.” Shiera grinned as she plucked up a full sized longbow and herself notched an arrow.

She sucked in a deep breathe and released. Her arrow struck centre, much to Robb’s unamusement.

“Come now Lordling Stark. Prove yourself the better marksman?” She teased.

The exchange was not uncommon amongst the Stark children and wards, though the friendly banter between Shiera and the older boys had become slendom in the recent summer. It seemed to Bran, after concluding her lessons with the Septa, instead of having more free time like the children thought, Shiera instead had even less. Though the younger children did not know what it was that took up her time, and made her less amenable to amusing banter.

Robb took up the invitation and made his own shot. Not precisely centre, but still inner ring.

“Damn. Your turn Jon.”  Robb muttered, offering the bow to his half brother. Jon went to accept the bow, but his attention was grabbed by a hurrying Lord Cassel.

“My Lord. Lord Stark!” Lord Cassel approached Ned on the bannister. “There’s been a raven. It bares the royal crest.”

A moment of silence echoed through the court yard.

“Right, Arya run up to the Septa, before she scolds you for skipping.”

“I don’t want to learn to stitch. Sansa’s good enough for both of us.”

“Go finish your lesson before the Septa makes you study a year extra just for stitching.” Shiera’s voice is suddenly sharped, less kind and more of an order. Arya huffs, but does not argue, and instead heads off back to her lesson.

“Robb, Jon, I think perhaps Bran and Rickon would enjoy a ride to little-spring. Ooh, take Theon too, I’m sure he’d love to see his latest love.”

Robb and Jon looked together.

“Are you coming then?” Robb yells up to Theon, who at this point had been with their father.

“Course I am.” Theon yelled back before looking to Lord Stark. “With your leave my lord.”

“Go, enjoy yourselves this afternoon, maybe see if Lord Cerwyn will allow you to stay the night. I shall send a raven ahead.” Lord Stark replies.

Theon nods before heading down to the rest of the Winterfell boys. Bran almost didn’t notice the silence exchange between Shiera and his father, but as Robb guided him away, he saw Shiera’s calm expression flash with panic, she covered it with a smile though.

NED

Lord Cassel’s arrival with news of the raven had startled Ned. The North rarely had contact with Kingslanding since the scandal seventeen years past. Since Brandon and Benjen took the black, the former to atone for his ‘crimes’ the latter simply out of desire for something _more_.

A raven sent from the capital was even more unlikely to be baring news, no matter the tone of the actual letter. The current King has certainly earned his nickname amongst the common people.

It seemed that Shiera was also aware of the affect the news of a Kings raven would be, taking control of the situation, and all but dismissing the rest of the children and other ward. She was cunning though, and did it in a way that did not flag up to the younger ones, but in a tone that left no room for argument with the older ones.

It barely took ten minutes before the boys had saddled and left leaving the girls with their Septa, and only Lord Cassel, Catelyn and Shiera to read the letter in the grand hall.

“I can go as well my Lord.” Shiera offered.

“As can I.” Lord Cassel offered with a nod.

“No, no. Stay. Lord Cassel I will need you no matter what this reads, and Shiera you are old enough to know what is going on in these Kingdoms.”

“My Lord.” She nodded.

“Besides, I’m sure my husband will need your quick thinking. It was a good move sending the boys away to Castle Cerwyn.” Catelyn pointed out.

Eddard nodded slowly, and guestured for them to all sit around the small table, that was often used in private discussion with Nothern Lords. He opened the letter and read it slowly, making sure not to miss a single detail. He paused, taking a deep breath, before divulged the letters contents.

 “The Prince is coming to Winterfell. The King has summoned us to join him, to celebrate the appointment of the new Hand and the Prince is coming to offer official invitation.”

“Meaning he wants to reaffirm his ultimate rule. Your Brother?” Lord Cassel questioned

“I shall pen him a letter. Though I doubt it shall matter much, neither the Prince nor the King are bothered by Brandon now he serves the wall.” Ned sighed.

This was not good. The letter explained how the King expected the Lord paramounts of the seven Kingdoms to join him a court for some unspecified reason. Perhaps he was displeased with how one of the kingdoms being ruled, or mayhaps he simply wanted to see how his subjects were. Either way it was most certainly not a good thing. But to send his son and heir to _formally_ invite them, that was a small reassurance that it was not the _north_ or at least not the Starks that were in any trouble. They were to leave a week after the Prince’s departcher from Winterfell, enough time to prepare the North for their Lord’s departcure. Then they were to travel and meet a party of Martell’s and other dornish Lords at the twins, before both groups continued on their way towards their final destination where the King and other Lords would meet them.

The bit was the most cryptic line in the letter, as even though the letter itself was a summons to Kings Landing, the final destination for them is written as that; final destination. Not the capital, not Kings Landing. Just _final destination._

“What else? Clearly it is more than a summons, else you would not look so unsure Ned.” Catelyn pressed. He hesitated, unsure if he should burden his wife with his suspicions.

“Some of the Dornish whom have returned to Westeros, will be meeting us at the twins.” He continued.

“Prince Martell?” Catelyn is a little surprised by this, knowing the rumors surrounding the Prince. It was perhaps a bad move on the Martel’s part, as it was no secret that Lord Mace Tyrel- who no doubtedly would also be in attendance- held no love for the dornish prince. Certainly not after the man unhorsed his eldest and crippled him.

“Oberyn. Yes. Doran is too ill to travel, though I believe his eldest and his youngest will be going directly to Kingslanding, and will travel with their Aunt.” 

“This is going to be dangerous.” She murmured under her breath, and Ned looked at the eldest child under his roof. She wasn’t really a child anymore. In fact she wasn’t at all. She was a young woman, with a wild heart.  

“Especially seeing as the King will expect almost all the Starks present.” Lord Cassel added. Ned simply nodded.

“You should leave Bran and Rickon with SmallJon. Robb will want to go regardless.” Shiera mused.

“Jon will probably come too. Lyanna would not want him to miss out. She wouldn’t go herself though.” Ned added himself.

“So leaving Lyanna in charge of Winterfell with Bran and Rickon… That’s a good plan.” Catelyn agreed. It was also no secret the Stark wife was not found of the Stark She-wolf. But the two held each other with a mutual respect Catelyn ruled Winterfell well alongside her husband, and Lyanna advised northern lords and lead the army as and when the wildings attempted to breach the North.

“Your Mother will most likely be invited too.” Catelyn added looking at Shiera who paused for only a second before responding.

“Which she would love to refuse, but knowing King Aerys.”

“She’ll probably leave _her_ Lyanna in charge. Lord knows you Mormont girls have the Brains of great leaders.” Catelyn guessed.

“And she’ll have Maester and Lord Harderly.” Shiera paused. “Do you think this is really a simple summons?”

“If he sends his own son as messenger, then I am reassured. Normally the king would sent his soldiers to collect those he feels have done him wrong.”

Ned sits back in hisn chair, looking between the lord and ladies at the table. Right now it wasn’t just the North that was in danger, but all of Westeros. So long as they all played their roles in

“We should have the Bannermen ready though. We could tell Rhaegar just as much. Say whilst the North Warden is away, the Bannermen must always be prepared.” Shiera proposed. Catelyn looked at her ward-daughter in surprise. She had thought that the younger woman would not be so involved in politics as she had suddenly made herself, though she also thought that perhaps this was Shiera’s way of ensuring she knew the happenings in the Kingdoms. Ned was unbothered by all of this though. His only real concern was what ever the King had planned.

“Aye. That would be wise. Especially if this were to break out in civil war. King Aerys will have all but ordered Lord Tywin to be in attendance.”

“And Lord Robert will go without hesitation, if only to try the… hidden fruits of Kingslanding.” Lord Cassel  mused.

“If you mean Littlefinger’s… halfway houses then yes.” Shiera cut in. “And he will drag his wife and children along for the ride too.”

There’s a moment of silence as they all think about the situation.

“It would be a good way to introduce us all to court. The other Lords and Ladies like Robert will be bringing their heirs. Perhaps your sister Lysa will be joining her Husband.”

“I will write to her and see. I know Little Robin has yet to be socialised with other boys his age.” Catelyn too sat back into her chair.

“Well, I think we ought to call it a day. Cat I know the girls will be wondering what we’re all talking about. And Lord Cassel, I would hate to keep you from your family dinner. If you’ll meet me tomorrow morn, so we can finalise are preparaions.” Ned’s dismissal was blunt but respectful.

 Catelyn bid her farewells and left, whilst Lord Cassel agreed to meet Lord Stark in his office before midday meal. Shiera stood to leave herself, though stopped as Ned gestured her to stay. Once Cassel was out of the room, Shierra glanced about, before standing again.

“Lord Stark.” Shiera raised her brows.

“Walk with me Shiera. I would like to hear our opinion on some things.” Ned smiled reassuringly. “Walk with me.”


	3. Chapter 3

**EDDARD**

Since the arrival of the letter from Kingslanding, Ned, Cat and Shiera (and occasionally Lord Cassel) has many discussions about potential outcomes. So when the fateful day of the Royal arrival came, everyone was prepared. A lower lord from half a days ride away sent a raven ahead when the royal procession was nearing, and so Shiera had the girls dressed in their best, and Catelyn handled the boys. Albeit Shiera had allowed Arya to wear a velvet long coat and silk breeches as opposed to the dress that Catelyn would have preferred. Nonetheless, it meant that the girls were dressed appropriate for the future King. Sansa wore an embraided gown, much simpler  than _she_ would have preferred, but Ned realised Shiera’s intention with urging this particular dress was to keep attention to a minimum, but to emphasis Sansa’s status as a lady. The boys were dressed rather differently, their mother having forced them into their formal leathers and shirts with a grey fur adorned coat, with the exception of Jon and Theon, who wore similar jackets though Theon’s was instead just leather, and Jon’s bore black fur rather than grey.

Ned had also written to his sister, whom has sent swift reply informing him she was aware of the impending arrival of the prince, and was set to arrive a little before the royals. True to her word she rode through the gates wearing silver and grey. She didn’t say much, other than her quick greetings and to say that the royal procession was now barely 10 minutes away. Somehow Shierra and Lyanna had both would up dressing in a similar fashion, Shierra wore a white wool gown over the top of some white pants whilst in contrast Lyanna wore a grey wool gown with leather trousers.

There was a slow kind but urgent panic amongst those at Winterfell. Catelyn urged all of the Stark kids and wards into some form of line. Jon stood back, so as to keep out of the way, and Lyanna stood a little closer to him. There was a moment of calm, and then it all erupted.

The visitors poured through the castle gates in a river of gold and silver and polished steel, three hundred strong, a pride of bannermen and knights, of sworn swords and freerides. Over their heads a dozen Silver banners whipped back and forth in the northern wind, emblazoned with the crowned dragon of Targaryen.

Ned knew many of the riders. There came Ser Jaime Lannister with hair as bright as beaten gold, and there Gerold Hightower with his faded curled locks. The tall boy beside him could only be the youngest son of the King, and that hunched man with whitening hair: Jon Darry.

The main head of the column, flanked by two knights in the snow-white cloaks of the Kingsguard, seemed almost a stranger to Ned . . . until he vaulted off the back of his warhorse with a familiar roar, and crushed Lyanna in a bone-crunching hug.

“Lyanna! Ah, but it is good to see that icy face of yours.” The king looked him over top to bottom, and laughed. “You have not changed at all. Even the glare is the same.”

Ned seemed stunned when he realised whom this helmeted man was: The crown Prince Rhaegar.

“Same to you, although it seems you’ve put on  a bit of weight since we last met.”

“Bah! Ten years is it? That is bound to have happened. Better to be carrying some extra padding in this ice land.”

“Try going further North, Your grace, that cock of yours would freeze off.”

Ned along with his own wife and their septa choked at this comment. The comment about the King-to-be was not well found, in fact if anything, the weight the King-to-be had put on was only more muscle. Despite this, and his own children’s astonishment, Shiera shared a grin with Theon, clearly finding the banter between the Prince and Lyanna amusing rather than alarming.

 

It had been nearly nine years since the Starks had set eyes on a pure-blooded Targaryen. It was during Balon Greyjoy’s rebellion, in the man’s arrogance or stupidity (Ned could never decide which one was the resounding reason for the mans decision) that the Dragons had joined the Direwolf pack in culling the self-proclaimed King of the Iron Islands. It had been an event that Ned had come to accept the young Prince as something of an ally, when they both had tried to protest against the King from burning the islands to ash. In fact, it had been the words of a young Shierra, that had calmed the king to only burning the rebellions leaders, with such a simple question that Ned didn’t know if it was intentional of accidental.

_“But if you kill everyone your grace, who will there be left to serve you?”_

Shierra’s youthful innocence had spared the her from the King’s normal outrage, and instead instilled a moment of _mercy_.

 _“Who is this girl?”_ The king had demanded.

_“My ward, your grace. Lady Shiera Mormont.”_

Shiera had been a skinny girl of around ten years, proficient in only spear as a weapon, but she had accompanied Ned alongside his then squire as nothing more than a cup bearer for the Lords, yet the girl had managed to briefly use her small spear skills to defend her liege lord when one assassin made attempt.

The end result of the brief rebellion was that the Iron Islands would be ruled by the Aeron Greyjoy, a now _weak willed man_ in the eyes of King Aerys. The only surviving son: Theon, would be raised by Ned, and upon Aeron’s death, would resume Lordship of the iron islands, should he deem him worthy.

 

It had been a relief to both Ned and Rhaegar that the King had actually listened to their pleas in sparing the islanders, and as consequence the Iron Islands had remained loyal enough to Ned. As consequence a sort of kin-ship had fallen between the two, despite Rhaegar’s un-princely actions with Lyanna only a few years before.

Yet Rhaegar was here as Ned’s Prince now, and not just a friend, so he said only two lines.

“Your Grace. Winterfell is yours.”

By then the others were dismounting as well, and grooms were coming forward for their mounts.

 

Now Rhaegar turned to greet Ned, offering his hand and a half smile.

“Eddard, it is good to see you. I hope you and your family are doing well.” It is now that Ned can smell it, the reason for Rhaegar’s lack of propriety; the stench of wine clung to the Prince as a perfume. He was intoxicated, ridiculously so, and Ned had no idea as to why, still he nodded his head in greeting.

“We are, Prince.”

“Good, good. Now where are my manors.” He turned to Jon, who stood between Ned and Lyanna.

Catelyn frowned, unsure as to why the future king would greet a bastard first as opposed to the legitimate children who stood to her side.

“Jon, how you’ve grown, when I last saw you, you were a wee lad with a knight’s grip. I hope you still have that grip. I hope to see you in the tourney.”

This time Ned is the one who frowns, a tourney? Surely not right now?

The King moved on to Catelyn now.

“It seems you’ve raised some wonderful children. They seem a credit to you and your husband.” And he brought Catelyn’s offered hand to his lips, and pressed a brief chaste kiss.

“Robb right? You seem as strong as your name-sake was at your age. I’m sure you and Jon are often sparing in some healthy combat.”

“And you, you’re the spit of your lovely mother. I assume you Sansa, correct?”

Sansa flushed a bright red and curtsied low. “Yes your grace.”

“And a lady’s manors. You’ll make a fine wife to someone I’m sure.”

Rhagar turns to look down and sees a pouting Arya, who at this point was more fascinated with looking at the Kingsguard than the actual Prince in front of her.

“My, and you’re the spit of your Aunt. Truly. I’m sure you have her spirit as well.”  This comment caught her attention and she grinned.

“Yes yer grace.” Arya nodded quickly. “I’m Arya.”

“Arya. I’ll be sure to remember that.” He turned to the last two boys, Rickon was tucked slightly behind Shiera and Bran just in front.

“Now you two _must_ be Ned’s youngest. Brandon and Rickon?”

The boys nodded eagerly though neither said a word.

“And you boy- Behind. Your Theon right?”

The Greyjoy ward seemed utterly stunned at the greeting, most likely expecting to be ignored as he usually was when Ned had guests.

“Yes, Sire.” Theon bowed his head low.

“You’re turning out to be a right good little Lord. I hope you are doing well under Ned?” The continuation of conversations seemed to throw everyone, most of all Theon.

“Y-yes, your Grace. It is an honour to be able to learn from someone as great as Lord Stark.” Theon nodded his head eager. The boy, though brash and occasionally malicious, still knew his manners.

Now Rhaegar straightened up and took one look a Shierra before enveloping her in a similar embrace to how he greeted Lyanna. Shierra’s reaction was one of utter surprise, casting a look over to Ned and Lyanna, who shared an unsure look. Unlike Lyanna Shiera was not aquanted with Rhaegar personally, in fact she had only met him once, and had not had the pleasure of even uttering a word in his direction.

“Now look at you. A right fine woman you are. Surely Ned’s got his hands being bitten off by offers for your hand.” His tone implied he’d known her for years, and not in passing.

“You honour me your grace.” Shiera offered a deep and meaningful curtsey, unsure of what it was the Prince really wanted.

Now Rhaegar frowned.

“Ned. I think it’s time you show me your wirewood. I have yet to give prayer to the Gods. Shierra, come too.”

Ned noticed that the request utterly stunned Shierra, though she bowed in compliance. Her surprise was not alone however, as even Cat had cast a questioning look to Ned.

It seems that he was right to involve Shierra in his talks about the raven. Although it was certainly not in the way he expected. He had expected her to be the piece hidden in the shadows, and not the master piece Rhaegar seemed to assume she was.


	4. The Weirwood discussions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So long time coming. I've been a bit busy for this years Uni preparations and settling in, but here it is. Hopefully you like?  
> By all means comment, feel free to criticise :) Thanks

SHIERRA

The Prince’s request had resulted in the three of them, accompanied by Sir Hightower head to Winterfell’s wirewood. Sir Hightower walked awkward, seemingly in pain, though Shierra chose to ignore it focusing on her surroundings, more than the confusing Prince and his guardsman. Something about the air left the girl rather unsettled.

Rhaegar and Ned stood and bowed before the weirwood, and Ser Gerold stood back, stiff as a board and panting heavily and Sheirra stood back, watching carefully.

“For the sake of the Gods, remove your armour.” Rhaegar somewhat snapped at his guard. Gerold Hightower complained, and all but collapsed against the floor a wincing mess, doing as commanded.

“What is the problem, your grace?”  Ned asked, but Shierra interjected with a hiss and a frown, her finger to her lips. Something had caught her eyes.

Acting upon instinct alone, she looked around the area scanning for something, before instantly and without hesitation tossed a knife she’d retrieved from somewhere on her person, into a tree. The sound of a thud surprises all but Shierra.

On the floor, lay the still warm body of a man. He was dressed in black but there was a notable insignia on his belt- a crowned dragon.

Ned was he first to speak, looking up at Rhaegar with a steady and unwavering look or questioning

“Spies my prince? Something must be imperatively wrong.”

Rhaegar seemed to want to look anywhere but at Ned, even settling on looking Shiera in the eye who in turn had not looked from the body of the spy daring it to move. Rhaegar then turned and answered Ned.

“The King. The King is the problem.” Rhaegar said, then looked away again and knelt down before the tree.

Shierra looked up startled, realising how perilous this conversation was. Why would _she_ be brought here, surely _Lyanna_ would have been better. Or Robb, or _Jon._

“Sorry to interject, my Prince. But… should I really be here?” She asked, hesitance ever present.

The prince, whilst he did not move his head, looked back at her in the corner of his eye. Her face is no longer obscured from looking down, the light through the Wierwood’s branches shines upon it, her youth emphasised, but her maturity shone in her eyes.

“Of course. My father listened to you once. You also just caught one of my father’s spies.” The event that the Prince spoke of struck a cord with Shiera, causing a moment of utter shock flash in her face.

“I was a _child_. And…” Shierra stopped as the Prince’s meaning dawned on her.

The Prince would have no need to speak to one who held the King’s ear, if he himself held it.

“The King no longer trusts you.” She almost whispered.

It was rather odd, for Shierra to feel panicked at such words and for it to show on her face. Lady Catelyn had long driven into her the usefulness of keeping a calm facade, alas this time Shierra doubted even Catelyn herself would remain calm and diligent.

“No. And he is getting further and further erratic.”

“Then why are you here.” She pressed on. Surely the Prince’s time would be best spent gaining loyal allies in the south _closer_ to the capital.  

Rhaegar rolled his eyes,  

“After my father had-” He stops mid-sentence, a little panicked and looks over to his Kingsguard, who intern nods.

“Go on my Prince. It may involve me, but it is your story to tell.”

“My father… The king. He attempted to… Shame my mother in court, Sir Hightower tried to prevent it with a quick word. My father saw it as a defiance. It was only the word of my brother that spared Gerard death. But…. My father ordered his new personal guard to hold a red branding rod against his back. To…”

“To ensure I never forget which noble house I am loyal to.” Gerald finished.

Shierra watches as Ned straightens up to look at the Knight, concern evident in his eyes to her, though she doubted anyone raised outside of Winterfell would notice it.

“And it pains you still.” He inquired, clearly unsure as to how a wound from an event in _Kingslanding_ would still be affecting the knight after almost a _month_ of travel at the very least.

“Your father has forbidden any Maester from tending to the wound.” Rhaegar shrugged. “And as you can see, his spies are everywhere.”

“Great Gods.” Ned muttered, his disgust now unhidden.

Shierra sighed, and pushes up from the tree in which she had leant, finding motivation for action now, rather than later.

“Hold your story.” Shierra said abruptly. “I shall be back.”

 

In a hurry, without waiting for a response, Shierra ran back to the main house, not bothering to remove wet shoes, she ran up until the Maesters apocrathy. Finding it empty she took advantage and grabbed the scroll she knew contained the basic instructions she needed, and shoved it into a discarded bag, along with several bottles and bags of herbs and concotions. Satisfied with her hall she returned, ignoring the cry of annoyance from the head maid, whom had walked in to wet floors.

When Shierra returned, neither Ned nor Rhaegar had moved, however Gerard had taken to leaning back on the cool snow covered floor.

“Up, Shirt off then lie on your front.” Came her orders, much to the surprise of them all, and amusement of Ned.

“The king forbade treatment.”

“From a _Maester_. And clearly I am not one. Nor am I a sister of the silence, so clearly we aren’t breaking any rules, now up, off and over.”

Shierra couldn’t help but snort at Ned’s undisguised amusement, as she ordered the Prince’s very own Kingsguard to strip. Despite its innocent intentions, she was sure Sansa and Catelyn would be scandalised by it. She knelt down next to the Knight as he complied to her orders, setting the bags contents out beside her, before she got to work.


	5. The Invitation.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Shierra gets to work healing the Older Knight, the King-to-be tells Ned and Shierra of the King's increasing madness, and issues the King's "invitation".

NED

Eddard Stark stood back and listened to the Prince as he talked, watching as Shierra began cleaning the wounds of Ser Gerold’s back. Most of it had healed sloppily, but there were many open wounds still and some needed stitches. She had insisted Ser Gerold drink a concoction Ned recognised as being one to relieve pain, before moving on with her self-assigned task.

The King seemed satisfied that of Shierra’s work, that he continued his tale.

“My father has been succumbing more and more to his madness. He’s killed more Hands of the King than _traitors_ have. But when he tried to humiliate my mother, Ser Gerold stepped in to dissuade him, my father had him whipped and branded.”

“I can _see_ that. Despite the wounds festering and becoming so infected.” Shierra interrupted, unsheathing a blade which Ned assumed was to cut the infection from the flesh. “Can we skip to the bits we _can’t_ work out. Why are you here, for instance.”

The girls annoyance had come to the for front masking her real concern. It was easy for Ned to see, since it was hard to watch the girl grow up and not no her tricks. She was listening with caution, but focused on her personal mission to heal the Knight, indeed, cutting the infection from the wounds with precision.

“My father has begun to pluck men off of the streets for supposed _treasons_ against the crown, Nobel and common alike. He has begun ranting about how I have be conspiring with my mother, cursing him from baring any more heirs. He is in _debt_ to the Golden Company. He has _killed_ nobles from across the seas, and he has now created his personal guard _outside_ of Kindsguard. He is building a mercenary army and I believe it is his intention to storm and ‘re-conquer’ the Kingdoms that he has deemed _treasonous_. He’s going to instigate a slaughter on a whim and paranoia.”

“You _are_ conspiring against him right now.” Ned shrugged. It was hard to see Rhaegar’s side when he himself knew just sixteen years prior treason had been his very intention.

“For the good of the people. The good of the Kingdoms.” Rhaegar snapped back, the Dragons fury flashing in his eyes. Shierra scoffs now, pausing in her work to look up.

“He wasn’t implying you didn’t have a legitimate reason, he’s pointing out, that right now, your only proving your fathers paranoia right.” Her voice, whilst holds an edge, is calm and smooth. “Did you not go to Harrenhal all those years ago with the same intention.”

This surprises Rhaegar, Ned notices, and its somewhat of a surprise to the Warden himself. It was no secret that the older nobles had ideas that the Prince had come all those years ago to conspire and gain support against his father. Of course Ned had assumed that this belief would have died out with the revelation of the altercation between the Prince, and Ned’s own sister.

“I wouldn’t be doing this if I believed that it was not the only choice.” Rhaegar said steadily. “And I should have carried through with my intent all those years ago. It would have spared so many.”

“And cost many too.” Shierra narrowed her eyes.

“But you haven’t answered Shierra question, why are you _here_.” Ned asked, now impatient with Rhaegar’s reasoning and looking for an outright answer.

“I am here to request your assistance for myself and your presence at court for the king. As well as offer invitation to the new Tourney.” Rhaegar slumps forward in exadurhated exhaustion. “The houses need to be prepared in case my father acts during the Tourney. Viserys may be working to placate him, but even he is at risk of offending the King. Danerys has already become victim to his rage more than once, and she is supposedly his pride and joy.” 

Ned knew the girl was said to be a beauty. Around the same age as Jon and Robb, she was said to resemble the Queen and her gentle nature reflected a young-teen Rhaegar.

“He’s betrothed her to a Dorthraki Hord lord, correct?” Shierra asked, though not bothering to look up this time. She had taken to stitching Gerold’s wounds.

This was news to even Ned and so when the King-to-be straightened up and blinked owlishly at the girl, who still did not look up and simply worked he was not surprised.

“That… is not common knowledge.” Finally Rhaegar spoke, and though not a question, the implication of one prompted Shierra to explain.

“One of the harpists that played for Dany visited Winterfell… I have a way of coaxing information from those whom otherwise would not part from it.” Shierra’s lip quirks at the implications. Though one would assume interrogation to be a part of her methods, Shierra instead could charm information without ever needing to ask the question.  

“If a direct move is not what you intend then what?”

Rhaegar sighs, leaning back on his arms and looks up at the branches of the Weirwood. His ash-white hair is hangs tangled past his shoulders and he pushes the circlet crown from his brow to his hairline.

“I need to delay my father’s rage. I need to get the Lord _actually_ on my side. And then we need to prepare.” Rhaegar listed his voice sounding heavier with each point.

“That’s not a plan.” Ned cut in, and it wasn’t. At best the Prince had a very vague guideline a goal with a handful of checkpoints he needed to meet along the way. 

“I’m accepting ideas.” Rhaegar offered a sheepish grin which prompted another scoff from Shierra who at this point had began rubbing an ointment on Ser Gerold’s back.

“Well first of all, _you_ need to stop drinking like Tyrion Lannister in a brothel.” She looked pointedly at Rhaegar in a way that Ned was sure not even the Queen had looked at him.

Rhaegar looked taken aback whist Ned simply snorted in amusement. The young woman had paused in her work to look thoroughly unimpressed at the Prince.

“I, I” The Prince stutters, utterly baffled by Ned’s ward and her words.

“I, I, I don’t care.”  She mocked daringly. “You are still the crown Prince, and if the times are as dangerous as you suggest, we need you at yur full wits, not boozing like Robert and Tyrion.”

Her fierce look is what makes Ned snort, not her words. A child of barely 20. Not a child really but not a mother yet. She should not be able to give a look of a scolding mother quite so naturally yet.

“My, honourable Ned has not yet tamed the bear inside of you.”

“It is impossible to tame a Mormont woman.” Shierra retorted. “As impossible as it is to tame a Dragon.”

The two of them share an almost intimate look between each other. Something familiar in Shierra’s face that looks almost identical to Rhaegar’s. Humored but worry lying underneath it. The gaze is broken when Shierra turned back to Ser Gerold.

“Right. I think that’s about it for you.” She admired her work.

Somehow in the time that the three of them had conversed, Shierra had cleaned, disinfected and finished with dressing the Kingsguard’s wound.

Ned watches as Shierra pours some of the alcohol over her hands, washing the blood off of it and then sits back and lazily studies the King-to-be.

“You spoke of a tourney?” She finally asks, the curiosity getting the better of her.

“My father requests all his lords attend a tourney at Summerhall, before the summons to court.”

Ned straightens himself in surprise. It had been a long time since a Tourney had been held, almost 2 whole winters in fact so for the King to demand attendance to one, and at Summerhall of all places was something that was going to be making more than a few Lords and Ladies concerned.

Shierra seemed to think so too as her whole face looses form and her jaw drops open in what was a most undignified manor.

“He only demands the attendance of the high Lords. The lower and minor Lords are also extended invitation though their refusal wont be something he’ll take offence to.” Rhaegar hastily adds, as though this information changes the demands threat or its destination.

Shierra is the first to break the stunned silence that had settled.

 “What? Is he mad? I mean, has he lost what sense he had. Summerhall is haunted by the ghosts of those fallen from the incident.” Shierra snorted at the last comment.

 “I do believe that is what the small people claim.” Gerold agreed to which Shierra cheerfully smiles at.

“Ah so he speaks.” She grinned before pressing on. “About the madness or the ghosts.”

This seems to ease the tension that had for a moment taken everyone by the throat.

“He’s making a point of reclaiming Summerhall?” Ned dares to ask

“Apparently.”

“Well… I think we should show you to your rooms Your Grace.” Ned said standing up.

Shierra followed suit and offered a hand to Ser Gerold who took it and the assistance without complaint.

“You are surprising strong for a Lady.”

“I’m a Mormont, did you expect any less?”

The banter between the old Knight and his own ward surprises Ned, though in a more positive way than it would perhaps another high Lord. Shierra was her own person, and carried the Mormont traditions higher than those of court, so her being friending the Knight would only upset Catelyn, and perhaps cause Sansa and Jenny to gossip.

Still these new revelations were something that would need to be thought about and discussed.


End file.
